


Maybe That Stalker Was Onto Something

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Weeds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angst as only Celia Hodes can do it: drinking, swearing, imagined Sapphic sex of both the sweet and angry variety, domestic bliss that includes getting rid of Isabelle and/or asking her for girl tips.  Post-discovery of Sullivan and Nancy's rendezvous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe That Stalker Was Onto Something

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Michelle K

 

 

As much as Celia loved Doug's big cock (and she did), she did not love Doug. At least not in the fairyland-princess, butterflies-and-rainbows, no-more-reasons-to-drink-and-pill-pop way. Sure, maybe in a second-marriage, good-sex-and-bitter-fights, divorce-in-three-years way. But not a fulfilling, you-complete-me way. Was it disappointing that he didn't become the next chapter of Celia Hodes' reign in Agrestic? Yes. Sad? Sure. But after the application of several over-the-counter meds and a sip or two of Stoli, she realized it didn't really hurt so much as itch. Added another disappointment to her life, another pissy reason to drop a cherry into her cosmopolitan or fill her flask or say something cutting to that hairy Jewish butterball of a soon-to-be ex.

And it wasn't that she *loved* Sullivan. She *believed* him. She never had to *believe* Doug, because Doug was constructed from equal parts laziness, horniness, and idiocy. But Sullivan seemed built from better things. More *earnest* things. But again, her future with Sullivan, even in fantasy, had a permanance that was more platonic than anything. It wasn't the shitty marriage she envisioned with Doug. It was just nice--like having a gay friend who fucks you occasionally (for Sullivan, it had to be said, regardless of Nancy's reaction, was no Doug in the sack; hell, he barely ranked above Dean). And takes care of you with his fantastic high-six-figure job.

After a third drink (a martini made from raspberry-flavored vodka and a Jumbo Razzamatazz with Weight Burner and Antioxidant Power boosts from Jamba Juice), Celia came to the heartbreaking conclusion that the someone she loved in that stupid, fucking "Jerry Maguire" way was, unfortunately, Nancy Botwin.

Fucking bitch.

See, it wasn't so much that Bitchface Botwin stole Sullivan from her. Because it was clear to Celia that you can't steal something if, when in your hands, it oozes through your fingers and crawls back to the shit stream from whence it sprung. It was realizing while watching the first man who had seen her mangled breasts nail her supposed best friend, that she, Celia Hodes, lifetime exclusive man-fucker, was kind of turned on by watching her best friend get nailed.

She *envied* Sullivan for getting to fuck Nancy. At home, seething and drinking and seething some more, Celia was distracted by the following thought: it would be really, really great to bend Nancy over a table and bring her to climax while holding onto her creamy, perfect, perky-for-40-that-whore breasts. Her come-ons to Nancy all those years ago had been no joke. In fact, she meant them more each passing day she knew Nancy. 

And it would be even better, after, to hold Nancy tight. Cuddle with her on a cream-colored sectional sofa in their matching PJs while watching "Sex in the City," judging Kim Cattrell's plastic surgery and mocking Charlotte's supposed prissiness when really, she was just as slutty as the rest of the women.

Buy a dog together. Maybe host book club together. Go on vacation to Paris together. Slip fingers inside her at night when she's asleep. Pin her against the kitchen cabinets and love-bite up and down her swanlike neck. Be sober every day for her. Ship Isabelle and that weirdo Shane off to boarding school and adopt a Chinese or Ethiopian or Russian baby (or maybe start a new trend by choosing a country that Angelina hadn't deigned to power shop yet). All those things. The whole fucking suburban fairy tale, dyked-out to Rosie O'Donnell, Melissa Etheridge proportions.

Well, maybe not Etheridge. She divorced. Celia didn't think she'd be able to go through that with Nancy.

Embarrassed, she realized now that homosexuality probably was genetic and that Isabelle's rug-munching proclivities was hereditary.

But potentially exciting. Maybe Isabelle could explain how to do some kind of lesbian voodoo.

That bitch Nancy. Cunty twat. Whore.

It just made her so *mad*. And not in the way that life and men and money and Democrats and all the stupid dumbfucks she had to work with on the City Council made her mad. It broke her heart in a completely new, completely fucking horrible way. 

Nancy barely tolerated her as a *friend*. She'd never let here close enough for a platonic hug, much less to slip a hand under that gorgeous red dress that Sullivan bought (Celia didn't blame Sullivan for that, consequently: the bitch looked hot in red), feel those alabaster, toned thighs tremble.

Sullivan could plow inside Nancy like a Clydesdale on Viagra, and Nancy looked, even while coming, like she wanted to vomit. Celia knew that, sometimes, what Nancy felt for her was *kind of* like hate.

Life just wasn't fair.

Celia thought of a song she'd heard at The Daily Grind when it first opened, back in 1993. It was this angelic woman singing about kissing someone so hard that it would take her breath away. She stumbled to her iBook and opened her browser, tapping away at the delicate keys with her berry-alcohol fingers. The lyrics sprung up on Google. Apparently, it was some Canadian singer--leave it to someone who gets socialized medicine to unlock her soul.

"Oh you speak to me in riddles and/

You speak to me in rhymes/

My body aches to breathe your breath/

You words keep me alive/"

Tired of pretending, she cried into her sickeningly sweet Jamba-tini (though she kept drinking it for the Weight Loss boost and the antioxidants that she believed would keep her in remission), wept deeply for the first time in a long, long time.

Fucking Nancy Botwin.

Or, Celia laugh-cried to herself, not ever fucking Nancy Botwin.

Through her tears, she clicked on the Wikipedia link and read more about the song. Extracted from the letters of a stalker. Beautiful, needy words that Celia identified with, and they came from the bosom of a mentally ill *man* who committed suicide.

He was also Canadian.

Great. Just great.

But then again, maybe after one more martini--minus the Jamba sludge--kidnapping would seem less taboo. Stockholm Syndrome seemed the best option, if she was honest with herself. Besides, tying Nancy up was tempting both emotionally as well as sexually.

Or maybe she should call that carpenter again. Maybe a good solid boning would fuck the dyke right out of her.

Or maybe two more martinis. Or three.

Oh, *Nancy.*

 


End file.
